


with his own dagger

by convallaria_majalis



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Choking, Dissociation, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Hurt No Comfort, Literal Torture Porn, PIV Sex, Restraints, Sadism, Sith!Rey, drugged, lightsaber burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23816278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convallaria_majalis/pseuds/convallaria_majalis
Summary: He had learned quickly what she wanted. Even more quickly, he had learned the consequences for withholding it. And what she wanted was this: His fear. His anguish. The torment of his body and soul.MIND THE FUCKING TAGS.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	with his own dagger

**Author's Note:**

> SO, I’ve been basically indifferent about our local disaster goth boy this whole time... right up until his last scene. What can I say, I have predictable buttons. If you, like me, saw him limping and collapsing his way to give himself up for Rey and immediately decided he should be more miserable, you’ve come to the right place.

He had lost track of the days. The days? Surely, by now, the months. On a planet so far from its dim star that the daylight was fainter than a candle’s glow, the difference between day and night to his exhausted eyes was almost imperceptible.

He hoped the time could still be measured in months.

Pain, as it so often did, brought him back to himself. The syringe stung and throbbed like an insect sting in his neck, the warm ache of the drug quickly spreading through his body. Ben winced, not so much from the sensation as from what it meant.

_She’ll be here soon._

There was nothing to look at but the inside of the cavern, which extended dark and shadowed in every direction. Nothing to do but wait, mind and body searching for an escape route that he knew was nowhere to be found.

Like always he was on his back, shackled to a stone platform with freezing metal. The air currents in the massive room raised dimples on his horribly exposed flesh. His arms were bound up underneath him so his palms touched his elbows; it was a pose that made his hands go dead and his shoulders ache. If he stretched, his fingertips could just graze the edge of the binding—but what then? The Force was gone from him. Without it he was nothing.

It occurred to him to wonder why this time it was her droids who had brought him and bound him here. Perhaps she was tired today, or in a hurry. Usually she wanted to subdue him herself.

The soft crunch of dust under boots told him his wait was over. He screwed his eyes shut.

_Let it be quick this time. Please._

“Hello, Ben,” said a sweet voice. “Are you happy to see me?”

He had learned quickly what she wanted. Even more quickly, he had learned the consequences for withholding it. And what she wanted was this: His fear. His anguish. The torment of his body and soul.

“Yes,” he said, looking up into her yellow-black eyes.

The sting of the slap seemed to come out of nowhere. Her new powers had pushed her already-quick movements to a blur.

“Yes what?”

He winced and cursed himself. “Yes, Master.”

“Better,” she purred. From her place above him he felt her gaze rake over his body. He shivered, breaths coming fast and uneven; any second now she would begin in earnest.

She grinned. Fingertips touched his bare chest—and then, a moment later, her sharpened nails tore lines from his collarbone to his stomach. He didn’t hold back the hiss of pain; it was what she wanted, and the sooner she got it, the sooner it would be over.

Swiftly she added another set of marks to the first. Ben exhaled, watching tiny red droplets bead up on his chest. This was all right; this could be borne. He had become very familiar with what she could do to him, and this was the least of it. But then she changed position, shifting her weight above him, and reached her hand downward.

_No—_

He struggled and turned his face away, but there was no escaping it. The drugs never failed. Every time they forced his body to betray him. It was impossible to hold back the soft sob that tightened his throat.

Fingers touched his cheek. "Ben," she murmured. She could do that, change from sadist to comforter in an instant. "What's wrong, darling? Stay with me."

But he was not comforted. No amount of softness in her face could make up for what her cruel hands were doing. It was obscene, the way she could force pleasure on him, the way she could make it feel like being torn in two.

"You want me, don't you?" she asked, and the edge was back in her voice. "Tell me."

She didn't care what he wanted. It was simply her way of making him invite his own annihilation.

"Yes," he said hollowly. "Please use me. Master."

That got to her. She bit her lip and rutted against him, hard. And then her hands lifted the hem of her skirt—

It was what she loved most. Taking and consuming him.

Ben wished to every power he knew that there were some way to float outside his body, to leave it there on the slab while she took whatever she wanted from it and let him be. But it was impossible. The destruction of his flesh wasn’t enough; she wanted him to feel every second, wanted every sob and scream to be perfectly authentic. There was no hiding from her. The last time she’d sensed him slipping away from himself, only his frantic begging had kept her from breaking his fingers.

How had he not seen it? When he’d asked her to join him, how had he not realized what she would become?

She was vengeful now, and exacting. At first it had been an eye for an eye: mental torture, her hands pawing through his most private memories, for what he’d done when he’d captured the pilot. Bloody lashes across his back, for the saber cut he’d given the deserter.

By then she had gotten a taste for it. Everything after that was for her.

Her nails found his sides again, his gasps mixing with her growled moans of pleasure. The effect his pain had on her was obvious and immediate. It gave her delight and power, made her muscles tense and her heart race—and it made her want more. Ben closed his eyes and gave himself over to it, whimpered as she dug into him harder and harder. If only he could give her enough from this, if only this was all she wanted...

There was a too-familiar noise, a fiery, ionic crackle, and Ben’s eyes snapped open. Fear froze him solid.

It was her eyes, her yellow-black eyes, looking into them like turning his soul inside out. Her smiling face now bathed in red.

_“Please,”_ he choked, finally finding his voice. “Rey, this isn’t you, don’t—“

“I like when you beg,” she told him, and slowly brought her saber down.

His head cracked painfully against the stone, but that was nothing. Nothing to the searing and bubbling and the smell, gods, the smell of his own flesh.

Ben screamed.

Everything was gone from his mind. He did not wish for the pain to end; there was no longer a world where it could end. There was only the red behind his eyelids and his body’s most foolish instincts. _Survive. Bear it._

And it could be borne. Experience had been a brutal teacher.

For a moment the torch held to his skin lessened, and he surfaced. Just long enough to lodge a breath in his lungs and an image in his mind. Then the growling blade came in range again, and he clung to the scene like the edge of a cliff.

_Rey—_

Not his current torturer, bright and flush with the delight of hearing him scream. No, he saw her from before: her white robes in the salt spray, the husk of the Death Star hard under his knees. Begging for her forgiveness, and the cool touch of her palm as she gave it. A false memory gives false comfort, but it was the best one he had. He felt the coarse cloth of her robes against his cheek as she pulled him forward, her hands gently running through his hair.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "Rey, I failed. I don't know what to do."

"I know. It’ll be all right, Ben." Her voice was frank, but not unkind. “It doesn’t have to define you. You can make up for it."

He pressed his forehead against her knee. He could feel insistent tears wetting his lashes. "I don't know how," he said, voice breaking in spite of himself.

The hand in his hair tightened, grounding him with her touch. She said, "Look at me.”

He wanted to obey. But the shame of meeting her eyes was too great, and so he pressed harder against her. There was the scent of green on her clothing. She placed a gentle hand under his jaw and coaxed him to look up.

A hand that suddenly was not gentle at all. A hand that wrenched his head towards her as if she meant to break his neck.

“You can’t hide from me,” she snarled—and he was back in the dim cavern, back in his freezing, smoldering body. Her hand in his hair pinning his neck at a painful angle, her beautiful face so horribly close to his. She raised her other hand and slapped him savagely, more times than he could count, until his face stung and his vision swam.

“You’re mine, Ben. And I intend to keep you. Do you understand?”

Swallowing a sob, he nodded. Slowly. Once.

He wanted to cry. She wanted him to cry; some of his worst suffering had been in service of that goal. But no matter what she did, something within him stayed locked tight and wouldn’t let go. Perhaps it was his mind preserving his last shred of dignity—or perhaps it was simply that you can’t wring tears from a stone.

She released her grip on his hair and leaned back. No—his hips lurched— _thrust_ back. Ben's groan was lost in her vicious gasps of pleasure as she rutted against him harder and harder. He grit his teeth and tried not to feel it, tried to shut it out, even as he carefully studied her face. The sheen of sweat stood out on her forehead and cheeks; she was flushed to the neck, her face creased with the intensity of it.

Please, he begged silently. She has to be close. It has to end soon.

He supposed he should be glad that her hands were off him, that the angry burns on his chest were now mere echoes of the pain she had initially inflicted. But between those hurts and this, the twisting of what could have been pleasure into something unwanted and horrible—he would rather burn a hundred times over.

It seemed like ages ago, the first time he’d realized she planned to use him this way. She’d had him bathed and dressed and brought to her rooms—cuffed, of course, his hands held awkwardly in front of him as he entered the fine room and tried not to wonder what she could possibly want with him here. She watched, lounging on a large, soft bed, as he came toward her.

"Sit,” she commanded, and he sat on the end of the bed, the first time in weeks he had felt anything soft or forgiving.

She was everything he had never been: calm, self-possessed, sure of her path. Control came easily to her, and she wielded it with a skill that seemed like magic. In the face of it, thinking back on the many failures of his rule was humiliating. Small wonder that they had led him here.

She watched him like a predator. Smirking, her eyes roving over every part of him. And then she came closer, slid her hot hand along his thigh, and he knew for certain. His heart stuttered.

“Wait.” The cuffs rattled as he covered her hand with both of his. “Rey, I have wanted you. I could want you even now—but not like this. Not as your prisoner.” He brought her hand to his lips, slowly and so gently, all the while holding her gaze. _Look. I can please you. I can be anything you want._ “Rey... wouldn’t you rather have me willing?”

“No,” she laughed cruelly, and—for the very first time—she kissed him.

Lying underneath her now, Ben realized that it no longer hurt to remember it. There was only emptiness.

She gave the short stuttering breaths that always preceded her orgasm, and he sprang back to the present. He could feel it, feel how close she was, and in that moment it was all that mattered. Her satisfaction was his delivery, even if it was only temporary, even if it came at great cost. A wave of relief began to wash over him, warming his skin and soothing his aching limbs—

And then her hand shot out towards his throat.

Instinctively Ben sucked down as much air as he could before her grip took hold, before the iron collar of her power tightened around his neck. It wasn't much.

He fought back panic, but staying calm was not possible, not when his lungs were already starting to burn, not when the feeble choked noises he heard were coming from him. Not when he could see desire and power and cruelty shift like a storm on her face, and wonder what yet unknown horrors she was capable of. Fear girdled his chest and darkened his vision, but at the same time it whispered to him: fight.

The cuffs that held him had been made for something much stronger than him. But he had damaged them before, cracked the metal or loosened the bolts out of sheer desperation. If he could just—

Ben reached for the thousandth time for Force power that wasn’t there. Where once there had been a vast hurricane to draw on, now there was nothing, not even a breath. He was alone, he had nothing, and if he didn’t do something quick he was going to die like some tiny helpless animal under his enemy’s claws. He clenched his teeth and threw himself at the restraints. Either they would break, or his body would—but he was already running out of air, and the harder he struggled, the quicker it fled. _Please,_ he thought. _Anything. Any victory. I have to be able to hope._

Darkness began to close in around his vision.

—

He was conscious first of a weight on his chest. A living weight, one with warmth and breath that shifted it slightly as it lay against him. Second came the inventory of pain. He drew a deep breath, forcing air through his bruised and constricted throat.

“Hello, Ben,” murmured the weight. “Nice to have you back.”

He groaned, although it sounded more like a croak, and raised his head slightly. There she was, draped over him loose-limbed as if she had collapsed there, which she probably had. Her head nestled into the space by his shoulder, her peaceful breaths chasing over his collarbone. The air smelled of sex, and her, and the sharp-sweet hint of smoke.

Ben closed his eyes. He could feel bruises forming where the restraints had dug into his arms and legs. It had been stupid to think he could break them, even more so to think he could have escaped once he had. She had him at every disadvantage.

She stirred and sat up, and Ben cried out, in both horror and pain. At the gossamer-thin edges of his lightsaber burns, pieces of his raw skin had come away with her clothes. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Ben, sweetheart,” she chided, tsking at him with exaggerated care. “Don’t look so pale. I’ll get you fixed up in a minute.”

From somewhere nearby she pulled out a first-aid kit. She’d given him four wounds in all, and now she dressed each one with gentle hands, laying the cool bacta strip over his ruined skin.

“You’re welcome,” she prompted.

Ben heard himself say, “Thank you, Master.”

He felt a nausea that was somehow bone-deep. There was no need to labor under the delusion that she was doing this because she cared for him, like she had when she healed the hole she'd made on the Death Star. Even a sense of guilt had no part in it. No, the reason was perfectly simple: the better she fixed him, the longer she would get to keep breaking him.

Before she left she pressed a thumb hard against one of the covered burns, and laughed when he screamed.

—

The rough stone walls of Ben’s cell were a welcome relief. His knees buckled and he crumpled into the darkest corner of the room, the one where at least part of him was hidden from the barred opening in the door. He drew his legs up to his chest and put his head in his hands.

_You’re safe,_ he told himself, drawing breaths that shook his whole body. _For the next few hours. I hope._

But the feeling of safety eluded him, because she was still here. Her grinning face erupted at him from the darkness. At the edges of his vision he could feel her pallid hands grabbing for him. The wounds on his chest still ached... and there was a worse ache than that. Taut as a bowstring. Long after she was done with him, the drugs that forced his readiness continued to work. He tried valiantly to ignore it, but the throbbing, the burning coal of desire and pain, overran all his thoughts until there was nothing left.

Even meditation was impossible. The feeling was too visceral: it tethered him, nailed him to his traitorous body, for as long as she cared for it to last.

Relief, too, was out of the question. The mere thought of touching himself now, of compounding her hands and her torture, was revolting. He would not do her work for her, and so he burned.

With a massive mental effort Ben tore away from himself. Formless, motionless, he floated up towards the ceiling of the cell and looked down at his own curled-up body.

Everything was clearer up here. There was more room, more air. His thoughts cleared as every physical sensation faded to nearly nothing. Up here nothing could hold him.

He took a deep breath, held it, and saw rather than felt his shuddering body let it out. It struck him how small it looked from above, curled into the corner of the cell with its arms wrapped around its knees. Poor thing, he thought. But the thought was far-off and faint, like the way you would think about the suffering of someone you’d never met. Even looking at the spot where the dark hair parted, revealing the band of red and purple bruises around the neck, didn’t raise more than a temporary pang.

Which was probably for the best. Ben let the thought leave his mind and centered himself, drawing on—as much as his pride protested at it—some of his old Jedi exercises. _Visualize yourself. You are a ball at the bottom of a bowl. You are one drop of water in the ocean. You are expanding to fill up the edges of the sky._

Since the start of his captivity he had felt the Force only weakly, weaker than he had ever thought possible. Like a candle flame from miles off, sometimes visible, sometimes nearly guttering out. And completely out of his grasp. When he tried to reach for it, or even look at it directly, it would flutter, maddeningly, just out of view. It was the planet, or the cell, or something she had _done_ to him. It had to be. Because the alternative, too horrible to bear, was that the fault lay with him.

This was the closest he had come to touching it again: these moments of solitude, when he let his consciousness live outside himself. Nothing of the physical to hold him back.

He could feel it today. Stronger than it had been in some time, but still faint. Ben cleared his mind and waited for it to come closer.

He remembered this frustration from his earliest training. The paradox of it: reaching, without reaching. Mindful of the goal but empty of desire. It had always been his weak point. The harder you grabbed for something, the more certain you were to drive it away.

_As I have done_ —but the light bobbed closer, closer than it ever had, and he forced the thought back. _You are an empty bowl. You are a pool in the forest. If the Force intends to come to you, no power that exists can stop it._

It came closer. Ben eyed it. Trying not to want and not succeeding. It hovered for a moment at the edge of his consciousness, as if deciding something—and then it began to slip away.

Ben’s control, never steady, disappeared completely. He lunged. For the briefest moment he touched it, and it spread through him, carrying—what? Not a sound, not a memory, but still something he knew. Something that was gone.

A wall of power slammed Ben back into his body. Every sensation he’d left behind flooded him at once: the burns, the bruises, the shameful, painful hardness at the join of his thighs. He pitched forward, swearing in frustration, hands grinding the coarse rocky dirt of the cell floor. _Why now?_ he demanded. All his life the Light had pestered him, hindered him, nipped at his heels. Now, for the first time, he could accept it, even surrender himself to it—and for the first time it had fled from him completely.

_How can you leave me now?_

Moments passed. Even in the depths of his pain Ben was aware of a subtle change in the air of the cell. He raised his head—and now it was he who snapped his mind shut against the Force, far more securely than anything anyone else could do to him, because the presence he felt was so familiar it made his heart ache.

More than anything he missed her. He would have done anything for a single kind word from her. But Ben would rather the whole galaxy see him like this than his own mother.

The spaces between his cheeks and his palms filled with tears. 

—

The new Queen of the Sith strode down the narrow hallways of her palace at a burning pace. That little bout of destruction had been enjoyable, necessary even, but there was work to be done. The foundation of her empire was not yet secure. There were alliances to forge, deals to negotiate, carefully planned sentients to track down and terrorize... and yet, important as that work was, all she could focus on was the way her thighs slid against each other at every step. That, and the fire that still burned red-hot in her cheeks.

Usually one was enough to quiet her, for a few hours at least—but her attention had been elsewhere lately, and today she'd bounced back hard. She made one last-ditch attempt to think about trade routes and alliances, to head to her study and prepare for the day's meetings...

But damn it, she wanted. And she was not in the habit of denying herself.

Hell with the meetings. She ground to a halt and propped herself against the hallway wall, cold stone under her shoulders, her hot breath clouding in the chilly air.

I'll have him brought to the throne room, she thought, her hands already slipping under her waistband. Imagining his despair at being dragged before her again so soon. She pictured it: she would reach out a hand, binding his limbs tight with her power, and in one smooth motion force him to his knees at her feet. It was where he belonged. And then she would grab his hair hard, and drag him to her, and _take_ his gorgeous and broken mouth—

Power and delight rushed through her. Oh, I'm too impatient, she thought, huffing a laugh. I'm going to come right here in the hallway, Ben Solo be damned.

And she didn't stop herself—not the first time, and not the second. Hands working on herself lightning-quick, the warm sting of her bitten lip, crying out her relief in the empty hallway as loud as she goddamn pleased.

She steadied. Wobbly-kneed and flushed, and yet annoyed with herself for not making it last, for not taking the opportunity to use and break her captive further. Satisfied as she was there was still the spark, the little kernel of heat that could be doused only by inflicting cruelty, and then only temporarily.

But there was time for that. She could ruin him tomorrow, or later that evening, or day and night for a year if she chose. She thought of the little chip, small as a grain of sand, that she’d had implanted at the base of his skull: old tech with a modern twist. That was what kept him helpless for her, unable to use or sense even the smallest shred of Force power. Of course, with her new abilities she could have easily bested him, even if he were free—but it was more fun like this, more satisfying. To keep him as her pet, her plaything, while she took whatever she wanted from him.

His pain. His fear. The power that crowded around him still, though she had cut him off from it. And—her hands tensed and closed by themselves—his body, fully bared to her, still so vulnerable for all his strength. It was all hers.

**Author's Note:**

> _With his own sword-belt so fast she bound him  
>  (Fine flowers in the valley)  
> With his own dagger so sore she stabbed him  
> (As the roses blow)_  
> 
> 
>   
> —“The Elf-Knight,” version by the band Steeleye Span [(link)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8ZOILezRuM)


End file.
